“Sure,” he said, wanting to ask if she would go to supper with him again. But the words stuck in his throat: He was afraid she would laugh, or slap him, or say something like, “You’re old enough to be my father!” The best he could muster was to dig in his lapel pocket for one of his cards, and hold it out to her. “Here’s my direct number. Give me a call when your brother gets in. Or—anytime you want.” He grinned. The picture of the pathetic, scrounging, older bachelor, he supposed, upon reflection.

But she took the card, smiling. “Thank you, Harry. You’ve been so kind.”

He shoved his hands into his coat pockets again. “Good night.” “Good night,” she said, and turned, walked up the steps. The lovely Miss Anne Wallace, whom readers will remember, he typed, reflecting that he couldn’t recall the last time he had hesitated to ask for a date if he wanted one. Usually he didn’t give much of a damn either way. If he asked someone out and she said yes, great; on the rare occasions he was turned down, he wasn’t usually too bothered. He couldn’t remember the last time that his gut had gnawed with this anxiousness to see someone again.

Chapter 38

Escape into a substitute relationship is a going back to the dreamlike stage of late adolescence, putting new promises ahead of present performance, and attempting to make life stand still, so that one may continue on the threshold of maturity without ever stepping over into the place where one must make good one’s promises.

—The Good Housekeeping Marriage Book, 1939

THE MICKELSON HOUSE
502 W. First Street, Pine Rapids
Thursday, July 27, 1950

JJ sat on the sofa, not saying a word, smoking and watching Dolly clean up the mess he had made. First, she opened the front and back doors and all the living room windows, to let in the fresh air. Then she swept up the glass shards—they made a pleasant tinkling sound, like wind chimes—and righted the portraits, dusting them and the mantel. The portrait of JJ himself was missing; she couldn’t bring herself to ask him what he had done with it.

She did ask him, “Aren’t you going to eat?” She gestured to the plate she’d brought, which was still sitting on the coffee table.

“Maybe in a little while,” he said, smoking. “Thanks.”